Untitled

Here I sit. Pen in my hand, blank page lying in front of me. This feeling has overcome me, a euphoric rush that I can’t exactly describe. It hits me like a wave as I peer around the room that would prove to be the last I’ll ever know. The smooth mahogany desk has been home to many of my works. I do not believe in the use of electronic devices when it comes to my work. Everything I have ever written has been done so with the stroke of a hand. Some friends and colleagues have called me crazy for this practice, but I’ve always felt that it meant more coming directly from the writer’s hand.  The curtains allowed for a special shade of sunlight to be let into the room.

I sat back and took it all in, the simple beauty of it all. I’ve been racking my brain for over two hours, struggling to find the words to couple with this sheet of paper but to no avail. I don’t think people really understand the finality of death. I am not one of those people. A great life was not something I’ve lead, but an interesting one was for sure something I could stake claim to. I placed my hands on my head and leaned my head forward onto the desk in a drunken stupor, almost cursing myself for not being capable of doing this the right way.

There is just too much to say, too many people to acknowledge. Could you imagine being left out of a suicide note? That would probably be more damaging for the loved one that the act itself. Regardless, this wasn’t the issue. A writer’s suicide note would have to be like no other. You’d be expected to speak on the evils of life and death both. It’s just too much to ask for at this point in time.

To express my love to you, the one I’ve never met. The ones that I have met, the people that make my life worth living are the same that made it worth ending. You do not deserve what I bring into your life. Most of the people that love me actually love a fabricated version of me. One that sincerely hopes all is well, but doesn’t want it to be, without me around. Is it wrong to take what you’ve asked for? To go to extreme lengths to prove a point? To take my life just to prove that I mattered, even if I’m not around to see it?

Yes.

This is who I am, this is what I do. All I’ve ever wanted was to be respected by all and loved by you. What I have given has proven to fall on blind eyes and deaf ears. There is nothing else I can do. I made a promise to never give up on you, and so it shall be. To have given up on myself before I have thought of letting go of you.

What does this say?

I’m not entirely sure. In death I’ll be cemented as your personal legend, the one who never expected too much, the one who was always there in your time of need, the one who believed in you when nobody else would.

In life, I was the one you took for granted. I could never bring myself to willingly remove myself from your life, which would be far too hurtful for us both. Instead of taking myself out of our equation, I will remove myself from the grand scheme instead.

I reach into the drawer and pull out my half empty bottle of Jameson and pour myself a shot in the glass that sat mere inches from the letter.  I tilted my head back and thoroughly enjoyed the golden substance swishing around, burning my cheeks as I held it in. I can only imagine what this shit does to my liver.

I rose out of the chair and walked to the kitchen once swallowing the whiskey. Progress was made. I was happy with the outcome of this letter. I grabbed a chair that was stationed around the kitchen table and dragged it across the floor into my study. Removing the belt from my blue jeans, I tied it to the pull up bar that spent its days in the closet. The previous owner of the home must have been into exercise and staying in shape. Unfortunately, the current occupant was a mad writer.

Opening the closet door, I realized that this was not the ideal place for this to happen. I gazed up and seen the ceiling fan. Perhaps this would do.

I climbed onto the chair and wrapped the belt around the main piece of the furniture and gave it a tight pull to ensure its security. Once I knew that it would in fact hold me, I placed the belt around my throat and kicked the chair away. I flailed for half a minute. It was over. The note remained in my hand, I clenched it with every ounce of my being.

I remember two things.

The first being that the very last thing that I seen with my very own eyes was the note. As I glanced down for one final look, a smile came over me. I did the right thing. The page was empty. And my last thought was of you.